


The Regular

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Post-Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Doyle fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Regular

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Stealing is for losers. I only borrow.  
> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Chosen.

When the door to my bar opens, I look up with a big smile. I already know who it is. He’s what you might call a regular.  
  
“Hiya, pal,” I say, blinking in the milky sunlight that follows him in. It’s enough to make a roomful of drunks wince. If there were any in here to notice, that is. “You’re back quick.”  
  
My sense of time is sketchy these days. No surprise, considering. But I haven’t lost my sense of _people_. I knew he’d be back soon.  
  
“ _Quick_  is my middle name.”  
  
“Don’t let the ladies hear you say that, though.” He makes no move to come into the bar proper so I finish shining the last of the mugs and shelve them. “What’d ya bring me, this time?” I could See what he’s brought, if I wanted. But I’m a sucker for surprises. Nice ones, anyway.  
  
He finally steps into the bar and out of the sunlight, letting the door close. Approaches the counter, a tallish, smiling young man with shaggy dark hair and a five o’clock shadow fast approaching midnight. His eyes are dark, kind. Desperate.  
  
I feel for him, I do. I shouldn’t, but I do. I know why he’s come this time, just as I knew all the other times.  
  
“Well?” After watching him watch me watch him for nearly a minute, I eye the brown paper bag in his hand. His teeth are very white in the tan of his face and the gloom of the bar.  
  
“Just a little something to wet your whistle.” He sets the bag down on the bar-top. “Happy birthday.”  
  
“Is it? Now  _that_  took some research, I’m guessing.” My hand is reaching for the bag - it’s been so very long. Time is like taffy lately, and it’s been one long stretch since -  
  
I stop my hand before it touches the bag. Even without Seeing, I know what’s inside. He’s a smart kid, so it was only a matter of time before he figured out my game.  
  
“So. You brought me booze as a birthday gift, if today is indeed, my birthday. But notice where I’ve set up shop.” I gesture at the bar around me, trying to brazen it out. I’m not at all aching to uncap that beauty and toast in another year closer to - whatever it is I’m headin’ towards.  
  
Shoulda figured he’d see right through this, too. It’s a gift, one he was born with. Seeing through to the heart of matters.  
  
“But this is all for show, right?” He asks, looking around the bar. I’m proud of her, all gleaming brass and dark, mellow wood that glows like aged whisky in certain lights. “There’s no  _real_  booze here. This isn’t a  _real bar_. I figured if this was where you chose to hold your audiences. . . .”  
  
“Then maybe a drink wouldn’t go amiss,” I finish for him, smiling. “And so it won’t. Good on ya. You’ve solved my mysterious puzzle, blah, blah, blah. Make your petition.”  
  
“I was right? It is -” he picks up the bottle and shakes it free of the bag. I don’t know what shines brighter, the amber liquid in the bottle or the wild triumph in his eyes. Not used to being right, or acknowledged as being so, the poor guy. I’ve always had a soft spot for the under-appreciated.  
  
“Yep, kid, ya did it. What boon would you ask of me?” I can’t keep the gravity out of my voice, nor the sudden rallying of Power that warps the bar I’ve so carefully constructed for these little audiences. “You’ve come to petition the Oracle. Speak, that it may be granted.”  
  
The kid’s eyes dart around the bar as its reality bends and warps enough to show the grey Nowhere behind All Things. (That always happens when I’m granting -  _really_  freaks out the petitioners. Perils of the job, you might say.)  
  
“I - uh -” he falters, looks away. I could hope that he’s wavering, truly uncertain. But he’s not. His certainty glows around him like a nimbus of white light. I’ve looked into his possible futures and most of them - near all of them - feature him going through with this. Even the ones where I beg him not to.  
  
So I pick a possibility, one that isn’t as painful as most, and step onto it.   
  
“You have doubts.” It’s not a question. A thousand-thousand possibilities die as new ones are born into their places.  
  
“It’ll end badly, won’t it?” He has a seat and looks into my eyes, his own a bit shiny. I want to hug him, but know I only do that in a few of the possibilities. The ones that have him walking out of this bar, petition ungranted, unasked.  
  
Those possibilities lead to an end I can’t even begin to describe the badness of.   
  
But the way is his and his alone, to find or lose.  
  
“I’m not allowed to say.” But I am saying it, shouting it, with my eyes, with all of my being, damn the rules. An end as the one I’ve foreSeen would surely be worth suffering if it means saving him. Saving him from the pain, from all his good intentions turned to pale madness in a pale corner of a pale room.   
  
The need to save him from that eats at me like acid.  
  
“I have to do this,” he insists. “I just - I’ve got these friends and we - we need some direction. A magnetic north. Who better to guide us than the Powers That Be?”  
  
I snort. “Who better, indeed. To the PTB, you and your friends are pawns to be played when the timing is right. Rest assured that you won’t -  _any of you_  - make it to the grand endgame. The PTB have their own agenda that they pursue as relentlessly as any evil you’ll come up against.”  
  
“But -” he looks so confused, so crestfallen. “You’re one of them, right? One of the Powers? How can -?”  
  
“I’m  _not_  one of the powers, let’s get that straight,” I warn, reaching for a clean mug. Then another. Share and share alike, yeah? “I’m an  _Oracle_. Fairly low on the foodchain. Think of me as a cross between a genie and - Miss Cleo. I’m nothin’ special. I just call things as I see ‘em and help out the white hats when I’m allowed.”  
  
I crack open the Billy Dee and pour us each a healthy glass. His eyes watch my movements and he makes a prune-face when I hand him his mug, but takes a polite sip. I chuckle and watch him as I sip my own. God, that goes down smooth. Tastes like utter shit, but goes down like manna.  
  
Malt liquor and human companionship. . . the stuff that paradise-dimensions are made of.  
  
“So, do you know, like,  _everything_?” He’s blushing. Of course he is. I’d let him catch me staring at him. I’m a terrible flirt.  
  
“I know what I need to know, and a little bit more, besides.” I give him a big stage-wink and he laughs loud and long. I’d forgotten how good it feels to make someone laugh until our audiences.  
  
“That’s very Double-oh-seven.”  
  
“But for the lack of hot chicks and cool cars, yeah.”  
  
“Can you tell me what it’s like? To See?” He's all wide, innocent, doe-eyes. Breaks the heart, it does.  
  
“Oh, I can. And in one word: painful.” The look on his face is so dismayed, yet I feel obliged to go on, make sure he knows exactly what he’s getting into.   
  
“Imagine the worst migraine you’ve ever had. . . that would be welcome relief compared to these babies, a welcome, blessed relief. Uber-migraines-with-pictures with sounds and smells, unfortunately. And it’s nothing you’ll be able to control. They come when the Powers see fit to send ‘em and they drop you like 12-gauge drops an elk.”  
  
He’s gaping, now. Not the best look on anyone, I’ll grant you, but on him it’s. . . cute. He’s like a big puppy. I don’t think I’d mind him licking my face, either.  
  
“I'm thinking anything described in a hunting metaphor can’t be too good for my health.”  
  
“Downright fatal for you, I’d say.” I hold his gaze with my own to make sure the point gets across nice and clear. He swallows audibly.  
  
“Was it fatal for  _you_? Is that how you got this swell gig?” There’s something coloring his voice - either a laugh or a sob.  
  
“Nah, nah. Well. . . not directly, anyway. I acted on something I Saw. Got my fool-self incinerated.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, like burning white light isn’t behind everything I’ve felt since. “Didn’t See  _that_  coming, I'll tell ya. Just hiss, crackle, dead.”  
  
“Ouch.”  
  
“You can say that again.” Time for some more of the birthday suds. The kid’s barely touched his and that sip only for politeness sake. I don’t offer to top him off.  
  
“So. . . you were human, once?”  
  
“Oh, yeah.” I grin, slipping into Brachen-face just to make those pretty eyes widen. “On my mother’s side, that is. I’m also half Brachen demon.”  
  
“Ah,” he exhales, looking slightly relieved when I put away the purple spikes and green skin. I don’t hold that relief against him. He’s spent a large portion of his life fighting things that looked rather more like me than they did cute and fluffy bunny rabbits.  
  
“The Brachen in me is what kept me alive, you know? Humans weren’t meant to bear the Sight. Not Sight like what you’re after. What  _you’re_  after’ll drive you mad. Sight'd do that to most anything, really, human or demon. Takes a strong mind and soul to carry that burden.”  
  
His scowl actually sends a chill up my spine. There’s danger in this man. It’s buried deep, but there.  
  
“Are you saying you won’t grant my petition? That you think I’m not strong enough?”  
  
“I’m sayin’ that if you manage to not go mad - and there  _is_  a slim chance you'll keep your sanity. I’ve Seen possibilities where you get by with a little help from your friends - but  _receiving_  the visions  _will_  kill you. Sooner, rather than later. Just as they’ve killed every human Seer unfortunate enough to receive them.”  
  
He blinks and the anger is gone like it never was, replaced by resignation.  
  
“So - the PTB transmit on a signal so powerful that it’ll break the receiver. The receiver being _me_.”  
  
In my mind, I can see as clear as day, a young girl, pretty little thing, the back of her skull getting blown out by the last thing she'll ever See. . . .  
  
“That’s putting it a bit mildly, but yeah,” I say.  
  
He downs his drink. I pour him a little more and he downs that, too.  
  
“We  _need_  this. We need the edge the visions’ll give us.”   
  
“I know.” But what I don’t know is who he’s trying to convince, since  _he’s_  so determined and  _I_ Know the possibilities that’ll bloom if he walks out of here, sans visions. I pour him a little more, which he stares into as if it holds answers. Or maybe peace.  
  
“We’re the strongest we’ve ever been. . . and the least organized, the least - motivated. We’re drifting. . . .”  
  
I put my hand on his and he falls silent in surprise. He looks up and the unshed tears in his eyes almost undo me. I can’t bear to watch this brave, young man - this  _good man_  - talk himself into being glad he’s chosen misery, insanity and death.   
  
“You’re a good man. A  _champion_ , and I’ve met a few, in my time.”  
  
He laughs sadly, turning his hand palm-up to take mine, squeeze it. “I’m  _expendable_ , is what I am. That’s why it has to be me. I’m practical enough to see that, admit it. The others. . . they’ve found their places in the grand scheme of things and now, so have I.”  
  
His smile is so sweet and warm and kind. Colder people than I am have fallen hard for  _that_ smile, I’m bettin'.   
  
Suddenly,  _I’m_  the one who’s wavering, letting the mission slip.  
  
“You have your place in the world. It doesn’t have to involve  _this_.” I touch my first and second fingers to the spot between his eyes and just above his nose; the as yet Sightless third eye that should, in his case,  _remain Sightless_ , but must See, nonetheless.  
  
“But this  _is_  my place, don’t you get it? I have to do this. I  _want_  to do this.” His eyes are scared, but determined. And I realize I can’t sway him. He’s a champion, and it’s not my job to throw regrets in his chosen path.   
  
In my mind’s eye, another thousand-thousand possibilities die.  
  
I let my fingers drift down his face till I’m cupping his cheek in my palm. He doesn’t pull away, but leans into my touch affectionately, covering my hand with his own. I don’t know how long in mortal time he’s been coming to see me, how long he’s been petitioning, but it feels like I’ve known him forever.  
  
I’ll miss him terribly.  
  
“Very well.” I turn away from him, pulling my hands out of his. The last of of my Billy Dee goes down as smooth and shitty as the first, Powers bless it. I rinse the glass and step out into the main area. He turns on his stool and watches me approach with a welcoming smile on his face. When I’m standing right in front of him, he opens his mouth to make a joke I’m sure I already know the punchline to.   
  
“Hush.” I can’t help smiling a little as I take in his familiar face. This is the last time I’ll see it, I suppose. I want to be able to remember him clearly. As if I could ever forget.  
  
“Some days. . . this job really sucks,” I tell him, looking into  _him_ , seeing to the core of who he is. He’s so much stronger than he imagines, and yet unbelievably fragile for all that.  
  
“But I hear the dental plan is pretty good.” His eyes are dark and deep. There’s no bitterness in them, no regret, even. A little sadness, yeah, but no more than he walked in here with.   
  
“Don’t be afraid to lean on your friends.”   
  
“I won’t. I never have been. . ." Trepidation, impatience, excitement; another soldier, marching off to war. "Will this hurt?”   
  
“Only if you want it to.” But my flirt falls flat. It’s nearly impossible to be flirty when you’re about to send a good man off to his own death. “Speak, that it may be granted.”  
  
He takes a deep breath and stands up. Licks his lips nervously. But his gaze is steady, his voice unwavering and strong. If he’s managed to banish the doubts and regrets, well, that’d make one of us.   
  
“I want the visions. I want a direct pipeline to the Powers That Be. I want to be a Seer.”  
  
Biting back a sigh, I reach up to brush his hair back off his brow and step into his personal space. Even though he inclines his head, I still have to stand on tiptoes to kiss him.  
  
Not that I  _have_  to kiss him to pass on the visions, mind. I’m a bit beyond that, now. But as dramatic good-byes go, kisses are pretty unforgettable.  _Especially_  kisses like this one.  
  
What’s really amazing is. . . he tastes as sweet as he is and - yep, that’d be tongue.  
  
Well.  
  
I can feel Power shifting around us, warping my bar, flowing through me and into him. And la-de-dah, all’s right with the cosmos. He has his pipeline and the Powers have their latest Seer. But I’m not bitter. Not at all.  
  
It’s with regret and reluctance that I break the kiss to look into his eyes. This close, they’re almost hypnotic. “I dub thee: vision-boy.”  
  
“ _Dubbing?_  Is that what the Oracles are calling it, these days?” His voice is husky and turned-on, if I’m any judge of how a turned-on guy sounds. His hands settle comfortably on my waist. “And _vision-boy?_  I guess that’s better than  _donut-boy_. So, I’m a Seer, now, huh?”  
  
“Yep.” I don’t think I could sound less happy about that if I tried.  
  
“Cool.” He leans in, grinning, and we’re kissing again. His mouth is warm and his lips are soft and sweet and before I know it, I’m sliding my arms over his shoulders and linking them around his neck. He obligingly holds me closer, his hands moving down to my hips, then onto my ass.  
  
Just as he’s pushing me back and against the bar, knocking over his stool, I come to my senses and end the audience, effectively sling-shotting him back to his own plane of existence.   
  
As dramatic good-byes go, it’s pretty damn unforgettable.  
  
I right the stool I’d knocked over and have a sit. Finish what’s left of his mug and what’s left of the bottle. Around me, the reality of the bar thins, tears. Disintegrates. Like his chance at a normal-ish life. Like mine.  
  
Such a fine pair of cuckoos we are. One destined for madness and death, the other destined to wait in a formless, grey Nowhere for his next petitioner.  
  
“Happy birthday, Francis,” I say just before I wink out like a dying star.


End file.
